Sleeper Cell

by Chris Culver

  Hashim looked up from the vests to his son.

  “You used only the components I provided?”

  “Yes,” said Hamza, nodding.

  “It’s very important,” said Hashim. “You didn’t buy anything from RadioShack, you didn’t purchase anything that could be traced to you? We can’t afford to be caught at this juncture.”

  “No,” said Hamza, humoring his father with a smile. “I understand our mission. I used only what you gave me.”

  “I didn’t doubt you,” said Hashim, patting his son on the shoulder. He drew in a breath. “Can you bring our two soldiers down here?”

  Their two soldiers were a pair of young Somali men from Minnesota. Hashim had spoken to them almost a dozen times over the phone. Neither boy had much of an education, neither had a good job, and neither had much of a future. They were isolated and scorned by the community to which they had moved, but they were intelligent. They realized they were just as smart and industrious as the men and women around them, but unlike them, they had no real prospects. Alone and isolated, they became resentful. They were perfect recruits.

  Hamza disappeared upstairs and returned with the boys. They had very dark skin and hair cropped close to their scalps. More than anything else, their eyes stood out to him. Upon seeing the explosive devices laid out on that table, their eyes sparkled with hope. It filled Hashim with contentment to see young men such as these.

  When western journalists had visited the Islamic State, they had oftentimes remarked on how polite and happy the soldiers seemed. They were surprised—shocked even—to see men so willing to die. If those journalists had even a tiny fraction of understanding, though, it would have been obvious to them. The men and women inside the Islamic State had given their lives to God, just as these young men would give theirs. There was no higher calling or privilege. Of course they would be overjoyed to be the implements of God’s will.

  “As-salamu alaykum,” said Hashim, finding the smile came to his lips easily. “It’s good to meet you in person.”

  “Wa alaykumu as-salam,” said both boys in unison.

  “I’m proud to be here,” said one, stepping forward to shake Hashim’s hand. He had a weak grip. “I’m Abdullah. My brother is Yasin.”

  Hashim shook both of their hands and then stepped back. “You entered this world as boys. In a few hours, you will join the martyrs in paradise. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for your training, but know that I’m proud of you both. Your families will be proud, too, especially yours, Yasin. There’s no better example you can give to your son.”

  Yasin looked to his brother. “My family thinks Abdullah and I are fishing in Wisconsin.”

  “Then we will tell them the truth of your heroism,” said Hashim. He gestured toward the vests on the table. “Please, these vests are tailored for you. They’re perfectly safe. They will not go off until you decide. Let’s make sure you can wear them.”

  The young men walked forward and lovingly ran their hands across the equipment.

  “The components are mostly ceramic,” said Hamza, glancing to his father. It was a lie, but hopefully their Somali friends were too enamored to notice. “They will not set off the metal detector. Abdullah, you will enter the arena during the president’s rally speech. As soon as you are close to the stage, ignite the device. God will welcome you home as one of His beloved martyrs.”

  Hamza turned to Yasin. “And Yasin, my friend, you will join the crowd of protestors outside. President Crane has been known to interact with those who jeer him. If you see him and get close to him, do not hesitate.”

  “What if he doesn’t go outside?” asked Yasin.

  “Then you become a martyr the moment you hear your brother become one,” said Hashim. “You are God’s tool to strike down the wicked.”

  Abdullah picked up his vest and looked at the containers of ball bearings. “It’s heavy. These marbles look like metal.”

  “They’re glass,” said Hashim, hoping his voice sounded reassuring. “Don’t worry. We have every eventuality covered. Now take your vests and go upstairs. Call your loved ones, but don’t tell them what you are about to do. I will join you shortly. We have a long drive ahead of us before your holy work begins.”

  The two Somali boys walked upstairs with their vests, leaving four additional explosive devices still on the tables in the basement. Hashim let out a long breath. Hamza met his father’s eyes.

  “They’re not as ignorant as we expected,” said Hamza.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Hashim. “They’ll play their role. How are things progressing in DC?”

  “The team from New Jersey is in place. They can pull off the attack. It could work.”

  Hashim shook his head. “This isn’t about destroying the metro station. All warfare is deception. We are playing a longer game than the Americans will understand until it’s far too late. Have you heard anything new from our soldiers in Indiana?”

  “No,” said Hamza.

  “Then we assume they’re fine,” said Hashim. “This will be a great day.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Hamza. “I’d hate for all this work to be for nothing.”

  “Of course I’m right,” said Hashim, smiling. “Don’t be so negative. This is the best day of our lives, for today, God will use us to bring down an empire.”

  Chapter 7

  Nassir and his friends were holding back on me, but they weren’t terrorists, and I doubted they had killed Jacob Ganim. I’d give the farm a more thorough search later, but for now, I had things to see. I took out my cell phone and held it up, hoping I could get some kind of a signal. For a brief moment, I had a single bar. Then it disappeared.

  I went outside and climbed the tallest hill I could find and still remain on the property. My reception up there was weak but steady. A breeze blew from the woods behind me and rolled across the grass at my feet.

  My position gave me a view of the entire camp. Hills rolled down to the creek we had passed earlier. Two men were clearing trees with chain saws near the water’s edge, probably so they could build a dock or boat house for the camp. Forest surrounded us as far as I could see, like an undulating green blanket across the earth. Nassir’s holdings company had spent three million on the land, and they had certainly received their money’s worth.

  My address book didn’t have many numbers in it, so it only took a moment to find Special Agent Havelock’s listing. He answered quickly.

  “Ash, I got your text. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, squinting in the sunlight. “They’re building a summer camp for Muslim kids and refugees. That’s why they were getting money from wealthy Muslims in Qatar and Saudi Arabia.”

  “Yeah, we thought that might have been the case,” said Havelock. “We’re monitoring Nassir’s credit cards. He ordered four trampolines two weeks ago. Terrorists don’t usually do that sort of thing.”

  I gritted my teeth before speaking.

  “You knew this was a summer camp, and you still sent me in here?”

  “We had no idea what it was, Lieutenant,” said Havelock, his voice sharper than it had been a moment earlier. “You may have forgotten this, but occasionally bad guys lie when they do business. For all we knew, the order could have been for automatic weapons labeled as trampolines on an invoice. Don’t forget what your brother-in-law does online. Even if he is building a summer camp, he has ties to very violent people.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in a heavy breath. “He’s active on radical Islamic Facebook pages. That doesn’t make him a terrorist. It makes him an asshole. And even then, he’s not advocating violence. He’s talking to them. He probably thinks he’s injecting a moderate voice into the conversation.”

  “I’m not going to listen to you defend your brother-in-law. If you can’t do this assignment, tell me now. Michael Najam is dead. We need to know why.”

  I started pacing beneath an oak tree. “And by Michael Najam, you really mean Jacob Ganim, right?”

&n
bsp; Havelock hesitated. “How’d you learn that name?”

  “He had pills in his room under his real name. Who is this guy, really? He had enough drugs in there to keep a house full of addicts high for weeks.”

  “Lieutenant Rashid, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” said Havelock, his voice slow and measured. “You are not there to investigate Jacob Ganim. You’re there for Michael Najam. Someone killed him. Find who and why.”

  “And if I need to look into Jacob Ganim for that?”

  “You won’t,” said Havelock. “Good luck.”

  He hung up. On my end, it sounded like a gentle disconnect, but he had probably slammed his phone down. I understood and even respected where Havelock was coming from; he wanted to protect an undercover agent’s privacy. Under other circumstances, I would have been completely on board. But this was a murder. If the evidence led me to Jacob Ganim, that was where I had to go. Havelock may not have appreciated it, but that was his problem, not mine.

  I called up a web browser on my phone; opened the page for INSPECT, Indiana’s prescription drug monitoring program; and logged in with my IMPD credentials. Jacob Ganim had received his first prescription for oxycodone three years ago from a physician with the Indiana University Hospital in Indianapolis. Before that, INSPECT had no records of him. Either he wasn’t on any drugs, or he had moved from out of state. More importantly, though, INSPECT gave me his home address near Broadripple Park in Indianapolis.

  I entered the information in my phone’s address book and walked back to the administrative building, where I found Nassir on a rocking chair on the front porch.

  “Hey,” I said. “I need a favor.”

  He put his feet down on the ground. No smile touched his lips. “Anything for my favorite brother-in-law.”

  “I need a ride back to the mosque in Indianapolis so I can pick up my car. You should consider getting your front window replaced, too, before you get a ticket.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back. “I assume the FBI will pay for my window.”

  “You assume wrong,” I said. “At least for the moment. When this is over, I’ll put in a formal request to reimburse you.”

  Nassir nodded. “If I do this favor for you, will I see you here again?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Probably. If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for Michael Najam. I’m going to find his murderer.”

  Nassir closed his eyes and sighed before standing and reaching into a pocket for a cell phone. “Fine. Let me get my keys. And give me your new cell phone number in case I need to reach you.”

  “I thought we threw out your phone.”

  He held his phone toward me and smiled a humorless smile. “You did. That was a very expensive phone, by the way, and I expect to be reimbursed for that, too. This is my work phone. What’s your number?”

  I gave him the number of my burner phone, and he started to walk toward the door. I caught his arm before he could pass me.

  “Believe it or not, I am sorry it’s turned out like this.”

  He looked me up and down before pulling his arm away. “Me, too. Let’s just go before either of us does anything else to regret.”

  Though the Secret Service had well over three thousand special agents and another thirteen hundred uniformed officers, only a very small portion guarded US officials. It was an honor reserved for the most distinguished officers in the service, one the agents themselves took extremely seriously. As one of those agents, Special Agent Sean Navarro considered himself one of the luckiest men in the world.

  He was also probably one of the most nervous.

  As one of the senior-most agents within the White House’s protective detail, he took the safety of the president and his family personally. He had known President Crane for almost nine years and had started protecting him before Crane even won the presidential election. He had met Crane’s grandchildren and had watched them throw snowballs at one another on the White House’s north lawn. He had seen their birthday parties. He had seen the first family grow up.

  Over the years, he had grown to care for them, all of them. They treated him with respect and even kindness. In return, he’d protect them with everything he had, even laying down his life if necessary. Agent Navarro may not have agreed with President Crane’s politics, but he believed in the office of the president and the ideals of fairness and justice it represented. His job was the greatest privilege of his life.

  It was a little after one in the afternoon when he walked into Horsepower, the Secret Service’s command post directly beneath the Oval Office. It was a large room with a dozen monitors displaying camera feeds from within the White House and the surrounding grounds. Two agents watched those at all times.

  Aside from the surveillance equipment, there were duty stations for communications officers, there was a desk for an intelligence officer, there was an armory to the south, and there was a conference room to the east. Navarro scanned his ID at the door to the conference room and passed inside to find a group of six agents around a table. The room smelled like stale coffee and even staler cigarette smoke. It was not a pleasant combination.

  “Cohiba is in the Oval Office with Sunshine,” said Navarro. “We anticipate him staying for at least an hour. Marine One is on the lawn. We’ll depart when Cohiba is ready.”

  Cohiba was an odd code name, but the president had chosen it himself. Apparently, it was his favorite cigar brand. The first lady was Camus because she had a Ph.D. in philosophy and an interest in French literature, while Crane’s children and grandchildren were all given names from Winnie the Pooh. Sunshine was Megan Hill, Senator Dylan Hill’s wife.

  In other office buildings, people might have snickered at news of the midmorning rendezvous, but not here. President Crane’s affair with Megan Hill was an open secret, one probably even known to Senator Hill. As a Secret Service agent, Navarro knew it wasn’t his job to concern himself with rumors and innuendo. What the president did with his time was his business and no one else’s.

  “Thank you, Sean,” said Special Agent in Charge Walt Baker. “Have a seat.”

  Navarro pulled out the nearest chair and sat while the rest of the command staff went over that day’s threat analysis.

  “If you haven’t heard,” said Agent Baker, “Homeland Security is on a heightened state of alert right now due to an anticipated terror attack on the DC metro sometime this afternoon. They’ve deployed agents throughout the metro system and city. So far, we have not heard any specific threats toward the president, but we need to bear in mind that we have a situation in town.”

  Baker reached to the table for the remote that controlled the room’s presentation equipment. A map appeared on the video screen at the head of the conference room table.

  “As we’ve discussed multiple times, Cohiba is holding a campaign event late this afternoon at Westbrook Elementary in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. We’ll fly Marine One to Andrews Air Force Base and then Air Force One to Pease Air National Guard Base. At the base, we will meet Cohiba’s family. From there, we will depart via presidential motorcade to Westbrook Elementary. By the time we arrive, the locals will have closed off the streets that we plan to drive on. Upon finishing his speech, Cohiba will depart and return to Andrews Air Force Base via Air Force One. From there, he and his family will travel to Camp David for the duration of the Memorial Day weekend.

  “In New Hampshire, should we need them, we have four emergency routes designated A, B, C, and D to return to Air Force One. In the eventuality that we have to evacuate, Agent Navarro will make the call as to which route we take. We’ve already gone all over this, and I don’t anticipate problems. We have agents on the ground in all locations. Protestors have already arrived at the school. The locals have separated them and given them their own location.

  “As far as specifics go, a chapter of the Ku Klux Klan has driven up from Georgia to march while President Crane is speaking. The local police are ready to arrest them for disturbing th
e peace as soon as they become a problem. We’re actively monitoring both situations, but the New Hampshire State Police have both situations in hand. They are keeping us updated. Again, though, I don’t anticipate problems. Questions before we go?”

  Navarro looked up. “We have any more information about the metro situation in DC?”

  “Nothing indicates a threat to the president. For several weeks now, the FBI has been monitoring a group from New Jersey that it believed was planning some kind of attack. The Bureau is tracking suspects and anticipates having them in custody shortly. At this point, they’re a concern but not a worry. That said, we have diverted resources to that investigation as a precaution, leaving us a little thinner than I would like in New Hampshire. We don’t anticipate problems, but we have ample staff in place should any occur. Anything else?”

  “Any chance we can persuade Cohiba to avoid trying to make nice with the protestors?” asked one of the other agents.

  Baker drew in a breath. “I have spoken to the president and voiced our security concerns, but he was unmoved We’ll have CAT members on the roof with sniper rifles in case of an incident.”

  CAT was the Secret Service’s counterassault team. While agents on protective duty carried pistols, their primary job was to protect the president by removing him from danger as quickly as they could. That meant they usually surrounded him and carried him to an awaiting escape vehicle.

  The counterassault team, however, was a special forces unit that laid down suppressive fire in the eventuality of an attack by multiple gunmen. They rode in the rear of the motorcade and bought time for everyone else to get out of there. They were some of the baddest men on the planet. Navarro couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have watching the president’s back.

  Still, the metro attack had him on edge. If it were up to him, he would have scrapped the afternoon entirely. It wasn’t up to him, though. This was the president’s call, ultimately, and the president would see no reason to postpone.